


The Champagne Tastes Rank

by sinestrated



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 14:31:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4395482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinestrated/pseuds/sinestrated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where the honeypot test actually <i>is</i> a honeypot test, and Harry throws a wrench into the works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Champagne Tastes Rank

**Author's Note:**

> I keep trying to write fic under 2,000 words and I don’t know how y’all do it.
> 
> A little cracky, a little smutty, a little fluffy. Crsmuffy.

The door opens on Merlin’s fifth sigh in as many minutes. He turns and manages a smile nonetheless. “Galahad. Good to see you up and about.”

“Merlin,” Harry answers, nudging the door closed behind him. He’s fresh-shaven, long hair slicked neatly back, and he’s still wearing the hospital scrubs under his crimson-colored robe. Nevertheless, it’s a vast improvement over the stubble and silence and _cold-coma-stillness_ of the last two months, and Merlin allows himself a quick, quiet rush of relief at having his old friend back.

“Sorry I couldn’t come down to your room earlier,” he says, tilting his head in the direction of the security feed playing on the monitor in front of him. “Watching the tots.”

Harry waves a nonchalant hand before taking a curious step forward. Almost immediately, his eyebrows go up. “Oh. The honeypot?”

“Yes. Your timing is impeccable as usual,” Merlin answers, following Harry’s gaze to the three very familiar figures seated on a couch in the center of the screen.

Harry hums and leans down for a better look. All falls quiet for a moment as they watch Charlie, Eggsy, and Roxy chat up the young blonde civilian sitting between them. The bass from the music vibrates through the speakers. The recruits’ voices come through tinny and fake.

After another moment, Harry clears his throat. “Oh dear.”

Merlin nods and lets out another sigh. “They’re bloody awful at this.”

And they are. Charlie leaning into the mark and purring “How ‘bout I show you what they _really_ taught me at Cambridge?” into her ear makes Merlin want to feed his balls to the manor’s resident wolfhound. Eggsy regarding the mark with an open leer, legs sprawled shamelessly apart as he leans back in his chair, also isn’t helping.

Roxy seems to be the only one with a lick of sense, managing to engage the other woman in a conversation about musical theatre. Nevertheless, Merlin can read the mark’s discomfort in the way she’s started edging slowly toward the end of the couch, and he exchanges a long look with Harry. At the rate this is going, their pretty young heiress is going to explicitly tell them she has to go and one of them will say something ridiculous like “But we have to fuck you!” and Kingsman will have to buy her father a fucking _country_ as an apology.

In hindsight, he probably should have listened at their last meeting and changed the test. Bedivere had some intriguing ideas involving train tracks and interrogation.

Next to him, Harry straightens up and pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is going to cost us a fortune, isn’t it?”

“Mmhm,” Merlin answers, not bothering to hide his wince when Eggsy flops from his chair onto the couch, not even noticing the mark’s vaguely panicked look at having her escape route cut off.

Another brief pause. Then Harry shakes his head and lets out a long sigh.

“I’ll go get changed.”

 

It doesn’t take a genius-level IQ to figure out they’ve fucked this up.

Well, not Roxy. _Roxy_ and _cock-up_ don’t belong in the same sentence, apparently, because she’s talking to their target ( _Rebecca, oh yes certainly, Becky’s fine_ ) about the ballet or opera or some other posh shit Eggsy hasn’t the first clue about, and it seems to be working at least a little bit.

Charlie, also, is at least still trying, even though his smirks and wiggling eyebrows and innuendo just make him look a right twat. But Eggsy, well.

His head isn’t in the game, and he knows it. He started out with the right approach, all right, ‘cause back home down at the local all it took to get yourself a tumble was to put something on display. But then it became clear their target wasn’t going to fall for that act, and what Eggsy should have done was rethink his strategy, maybe team up with Roxy to pick up her tells and nuances, find a new angle, _adapt and transform._

But he can’t.

And it’s all fucking _Harry Hart’s_ fault.

Merlin, the bastard, should’ve known better. He should’ve known not to stop Eggsy on their way out of the room after giving them the photos, not to lean in and whisper, “Harry’s awake, you can see him after” in that quiet, reassuring tone that sent Eggsy’s heart thumping in his chest. And he must have done it on _purpose_ , there must be some sort of pool for who’s gonna win the Lancelot seat and Merlin bet against him, because he must have _known_ Eggsy would be absolute shit at any task set to him after news like that.

After two months of beeping machines and steady breaths and limp, lifeless hands, Harry Hart is finally awake. And instead of being by his side, holding his hand and introducing him to JB and drinking in the warmth of his smile, Eggsy is stuck here at a club he doesn’t care about trying to seduce a person he doesn’t want, while the person he _does_ want is back at HQ, so far out of reach he might as well be on another continent.

And yeah, so Eggsy stopped denying his feelings for Harry a long time ago. He’s comfortable with who he is, all right, and he recognized that first spark of attraction back at the Black Prince for exactly what it was, and he hadn’t tried to fight against its subsequent bloom into a full-on crush over the next several weeks. It would have been impossible, anyway, not with Harry being _Harry_ , all sharp suits and quick wit and purposeful, wired competence like a thunderstorm barely caged. Wars have been won with less effort than Eggsy would have needed to resist that.

Still, he’s done a fair job of not letting on about any of it. Harry is his sponsor, and Eggsy doesn’t have to make Kingsman to know what a profoundly terrible idea it would be to try to reach out to him the way he wants, not when he is still Harry’s student and proposal, Harry’s very reputation riding on his performance during training. And even if he does become Lancelot, Eggsy doesn’t know if he’ll ever have the courage to confess to Harry. If Harry were to reject him, if Harry were to push him gently but firmly away and say _No, I’m sorry_ with nothing but kindness in his eyes, Eggsy might just fly apart.

Better to love Harry from a distance than to lose him and shatter.

The music changes beats, bringing Eggsy’s concentration back to the club, the shit champagne, and Becky still chatting amiably with Roxy while Charlie hovers like a vulture for an angle to jump in. Eggsy shakes his head, sets his glass down, and squares his shoulders. He needs to get his act together, because none of this will mean shit if he fails this test and gets kicked out of Kingsman. He has to get through this so he can fulfill his dad’s legacy, so he can give his family the life they deserve, so he can keep basking in the warmth of Harry’s presence and approval like a planet circling its sun.

Taking a deep breath, he leans forward and opens his mouth—

“Ah, pardon me.”

The new voice speaks softly, barely audible over the pounding of the music, but Eggsy still nearly knocks over his champagne glass, spinning around to stare up at the newcomer to their table.

Harry is dressed down for a Kingsman agent, in a simple, solid navy blue suit so dark it’s almost black in the dim light of the club. His jacket is open, revealing a white linen shirt underneath, and he’s not wearing a tie, the top two buttons of his collar undone to divulge a sliver of skin that makes Eggsy’s mouth run dry. God, it’s so _good_ to see Harry again. Eggsy’s heart fills to near bursting with it, nothing but joy and relief because Harry is _here_ , finally: after two months of uncertainty and fear he’s back with Eggsy at last. He’s right where he belongs.

From where he stands just outside their booth, Harry smiles and tilts his head. His hair, released from its normal rigid part, shifts with the movement, hanging in soft, loose curls almost like a schoolboy’s, and Eggsy just _knows_ if he were to reach up and touch, if he were to run his fingers through the dark strands like he’s always wanted…

“Who are you?” Charlie demands, breaking Eggsy from his embarrassing reverie. He turns to see both Roxy and Charlie blinking at Harry with matching surprised expressions, and realizes with a jolt that they have no idea who Harry is. Of course it’s to be expected: the recruits haven’t had contact with any of the active Kingsman agents outside their own sponsors since the start of training, so Roxy and Charlie would know Harry only as _Galahad_ , a name on a page and nothing more.

But they don’t know _Harry,_ Eggsy realizes. They don’t know the soft way he smiles when Eggsy tells him his weapons scores, or the way his eyes slide closed in contentment over a good pint, or how he deals out destruction with a lightning grace and a god’s mercy. It’s jarring, and also ignites something weirdly possessive inside him, something angry and sharp that uncoils and hisses _He was mine first_ and kind of wants to kick Roxy and Charlie in the face for even _looking_ at Harry which, considering Harry doesn’t think Eggsy more than a friend, is just. Yikes.

Harry, in the meantime, ignores Charlie completely and leans over the table to offer a hand. “I can’t help but notice you’re being rather monopolized, my dear,” he says, to _Becky_ , and Eggsy’s performance on this test is utterly fucked, the way his fists clench in his lap. “So I was wondering if you’d prefer to join me for a drink instead.”

“Oh yes, sure,” Becky answers, and there’s no mistaking the relief in her voice as she scoots around Charlie to let Harry pull her to her feet. Then, before Eggsy can get his breath back, before Charlie or Roxy can do or say anything, they’re gone.

For a moment they just sit there, the pounding bass and the soft murmur of conversation continuing around them in a steady lull of background noise. Eggsy swallows, feeling suddenly ice-cold despite the stuffy heat of the club. Harry had propositioned _Becky._ He had— _touched_ her, held her hand in his, had asked her back to _his_ table, god, and he hadn’t even _looked_ at Eggsy—

“Well, that was absolute shit,” Charlie snaps, taking a savage drink of his champagne. “Who the hell does he think he is, making off with her like that?”

Eggsy takes a deep breath and slowly unclenches his fists, feeling red-hot pinpricks of pain from where his nails have dug tiny welts into his palms. Next to him on the couch, Roxy frowns. “You think he’s a plant, maybe? A way for Merlin to shake things up?”

Charlie snorts. “Wouldn’t put it past that Scottish bastard. And what the hell were _you_ doing, Unwin, sittin’ there with your dick in your—oy! Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?”

“Piss off,” Eggsy calls back, and starts across the room.

A plant. Of fucking _course_ , because what are the odds that, only a few hours after waking from a coma, Harry Hart would find his way to the _exact_ place where the recruits are completing their latest task, only to walk up to their _exact_ table and charm away their _exact_ mark?

Fuck all, that’s what. Three wolves hunting one sheep, and they’ve just been joined by a puma. And Eggsy’s come too far to lose now.

He finds them at a corner booth near the back of the club, barely visible to anyone without a good eye. Harry has a tumbler of scotch and Becky a glass of red, and as Eggsy approaches Harry says something that makes Becky laugh, throwing her head back to expose the pretty line of her throat as her mouth drops open in delight.

She’s more attractive in that moment than she has been all evening, but Eggsy can’t even watch her because Harry laughs too then, a soft chuckle that crinkles up the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. It makes him look all of a sudden ten years younger, cheerful and strong and devastatingly handsome, and Eggsy has to take a deep breath to steady his shaking hands before stepping up to them. “Mind if I join you?”

Harry turns, and if he’s surprised at all he doesn’t show it, instead peering at Eggsy over his glasses with a mild curiosity that gives nothing away. Becky, on the other hand, sobers rapidly. “Oh. Gary, was it?”

She probably doesn’t mean it to come out sounding disappointed or all _it’s you again,_ so Eggsy brushes it off as best he can as he scans Harry’s booth. It’s a smaller space, cozy, and the only open spot is next to Harry himself, opposite Becky. _Fuck it,_ Eggsy thinks, and plops down.

“Yeah,” he says, and offers a hand. “Gary Sparks.”

Harry’s expression stays completely smooth even as the amusement dances in his eyes while he shakes Eggsy’s hand. “Richard Armstrong. A pleasure, Gary.”

And damn, does his given name sound unexpectedly nice rolling off Harry’s tongue. Eggsy is suddenly glad for the dim lights overhead, which hopefully hide his flush not just at having Harry say his name but in being this close to him. The booth was really designed for two so he’s pressed up almost directly against Harry, their bodies a scant inch or two apart, and being this close to Harry, smelling the sharp pine scent of his cologne and seeing the tiny droplet of sweat gathered at the base of his neck from the heat of the club, does weird things to Eggsy’s chest and sends a tendril of heat spooling down somewhere deep in his gut.

Across the way Becky leans forward. “Richard here was just telling me a funny story from his work as a tailor.”

“Oh, really,” Eggsy says, looking at Harry. “That’s what _Richard_ was doing, eh?”

But Harry just continues smiling that stupid, beautiful, _gorgeous_ grin as he sets his scotch down on the table. “It was nothing, just a small annoyance,” he says. “Some poor fellow wandered into the shop and didn’t know the first thing about suits. So I had to go about…educating him.”

The way he says it, all cheeky and smart and _this lovely pint of Guinness_ , hits Eggsy somewhere below the stomach and oh, it is _on._

“Well,” he says, flagging down a passing server for another glass of champagne, “How do you know he wasn’t just messin’ with you? Maybe he knew all along. Maybe he was just waiting for the right moment to show you.”

Becky looks a little confused, but Harry just raises an eyebrow. “I hardly think this particular young man was capable of thinking that far ahead,” he answers.

Eggsy takes his glass from the server and downs a long swallow. “Maybe he wanted to surprise you.”

“Maybe he couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t he?”

They’re staring at each other, and all of a sudden the game is different. Eggsy can’t look away. He’s never had Harry this close, never seen all the minute little details of his face and his body, and he instantly commits the image to his memory, scouring the inside of his skull with this picture of Harry Hart: relaxed, content, teasing. He’ll never have it again, he knows. Any moment now Harry will draw back, will shake his head and say something lighthearted to break the tension and they will go back to their game of being mentor and student, father and son, shining golden knight and rough-skinned street kid. Any moment now.

Except, even as the seconds tick by, Harry doesn’t. He just continues staring at Eggsy, and Eggsy sees something slowly come to life behind his eyes: a dark, heated look that sparks an answering curl of desire in Eggsy’s gut. It slides down between his legs, a licking heat that fattens his cock in his jeans, a tingle of anticipation along the thickening shaft. Eggsy licks his lips without thinking and doesn’t miss Harry’s soft gasp, gaze dropping to Eggsy’s mouth as his fingers tighten around his glass, and just like that, with the explosive force of a supernova, Eggsy knows.

Harry _wants_ him.

The knowledge is so heavy it steals his breath for a moment, so that all Eggsy can do then is sit there and stare. Even though he hasn’t had that much liquor he feels drunk, slow and hazy and utterly mesmerized by Harry, by the way those brown eyes inexplicably darken and Harry’s throat works around a swallow as they inch ever closer.

Then Harry clears his throat, a rough, pitched-low sound just above a growl, and whispers, “Maybe he minded his _manners_ too much,” and Eggsy is _gone._

“Oh my god, Harry,” he breathes, surges forward, and kisses him.

The world doesn’t explode, but it’s a close thing. Harry makes a low, savage noise in his throat and kisses back immediately, working Eggsy’s mouth open and slipping his tongue inside without hesitation, the both of them moaning as they taste each other for the first time. In the far distance Eggsy vaguely registers Becky’s squeak of “Oh, sorry, I’ll just—” but it’s lost in the storm of other sensations, of _Harry:_ Harry’s hands sliding over his shoulders, his back, his hips; Harry’s skilled tongue curling around his own; Harry’s muscles flexing and bunching beneath his shirt as Eggsy presses as close as he can, wanting to _devour_ Harry, to crawl right inside his skin and make himself a home there forever.

Somewhere in their frenzy Eggsy’s managed to crawl into Harry’s lap, and at the first press of his clothed groin to Harry’s own Eggsy breaks the kiss to throw his head back, gasping at the flames that lick up his spine. Harry takes it in stride, leaning forward to press filthy, open-mouthed kisses to Eggsy’s throat, but even through the haze of growing arousal common sense still manages to take hold and Eggsy pushes at Harry’s shoulders, breathless and dizzy. “Harry,” he pants, then arches back as Harry bites down hard at the junction between his neck and his shoulder. “ _Ahh_ —Harry, not here!”

Harry hums and pulls back. His eyes are dark, sparkling in the strobing lights of the club, and sweat beads on his forehead, his skin flushed hot with arousal. “ _Eggsy,_ ” he hisses, like a man entranced, and Eggsy swears and shoves at him to get out of the booth.

They stumble like drunks down the back halls of the club, the trip taking twice as long as it normally would because they stop every few steps to kiss up against the nearest wall, desperate and hungry. Around the corner past the loo Harry finally stops them in the back of a dingy, dark hallway, shoves Eggsy up against the wall and slots their thighs together. Eggsy can’t even bring himself to care that they’re technically still out in public, that anyone could turn the corner and see them rutting against each other like animals. All he cares about is _Harry_ , the strong weight of his body holding Eggsy up, the firm press of his hips against Eggsy’s own, the deft fingers tearing at his belt buckle with the ferocity of a man dying of thirst.

Harry frees their cocks in record time, and Eggsy barely has a second to register the shock of cold air over silky, hot skin before Harry licks his palm and takes them both in hand, stroking hard and fast and merciless. It’s overwhelming: the taste of Harry on his tongue and the fiery hunger in his eyes, the sharp smell of their mixed arousal and the brutally perfect pressure of Harry’s hand on his cock, all of it hurling Eggsy toward the cliff’s edge of orgasm with the force of a hurricane, a maelstrom, a welcome disaster.

Then, abruptly, he’s slammed with it, choking on air as the world narrows down to his tongue in Harry’s mouth and his cock in Harry’s hand and Harry, Harry, _Harry_ , and Eggsy comes gasping the name like a prayer, like a promise, as Harry groans and stiffens against him.

It takes a moment for everything to come rushing back: the hallway, the club, the music still echoing distantly through the thin walls. Eggsy’s knees nearly give out but Harry manages to catch him, supporting him with one hand on his hip as they breathe together for a moment, coming down from the high.

A little while later, Harry finally sighs and takes a step back. He moves to start cleaning up but Eggsy darts forward for a kiss, quick and chaste, and feels Harry’s clean hand slide up to rest against the back of his neck.

“Hm,” Harry murmurs, their lips brushing with each syllable. “If this is your idea of completing the test—”

“Oh, come off it, this is different and you know it,” Eggsy retorts, and has the pleasure of seeing Harry laugh, quiet and thoroughly pleased.

“I do,” he answers, and lord, Eggsy is so gone for this man because the way he says it, all soft and loving and tender, makes his stomach tie into knots and his heart expand in his chest because it sounds so much like it could be said in a different context.

But that’s for another day, he stubbornly tells himself, as they finally separate and go about cleaning themselves up as much as possible with Harry’s handkerchief. It’s a lost cause, really, especially with the way Harry wrinkles his nose at his stained shirt, but Eggsy can’t bring himself to care, not with the happiness blooming deep in his soul, rising and erupting until he feels he might burst with it. A few ruined shirts are worth it. _Harry_ is worth it.

Across from him Harry tosses the handkerchief into the nearest bin and turns to Eggsy with a soft smile. “Let me take you home,” he says.

Eggsy grins, contented beyond belief. “ _Yes,_ Harry.”

 

They get summoned to one of the sitting rooms in HQ the next morning. Merlin, clipboard at the ready, raises his eyebrow at their tardiness. Roxy smiles, and behind her, pouring himself a generous glass of scotch, Percival just shrugs.

Merlin doesn’t dawdle. “Charlie’s been dismissed, having failed the test,” he says. “Roxy passed with flying colors. Good job intercepting Ms. Hornigold on her way out of the club.”

Roxy nods. Eggsy almost misses the way her ears turn red; he’s too busy looking to Harry, feeling the panic begin to build. Harry, however, just continues inspecting his nails, and Merlin clears his throat.

“As for you, Eggsy,” he says, and Eggsy straightens up. “Since you didn’t successfully seduce the mark, technically you failed and should be disqualified also. However,” and here he turns to give Harry a pointed look, “something must be said for the tact and skill it takes to seduce your sponsor instead.”

Percival, who had just taken a healthy swig of scotch, abruptly breaks into a coughing fit. Harry thumps him on the back and says wryly, “There, there.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and turns back to give Eggsy an unamused look. “So congratulations, Eggsy, you’ve passed. By the skin of your fucking teeth.”

Through the building relief and joy, Eggsy still manages a smirk. “Pretty sure I used a different body part, mate.”

Roxy chortles and Percival groans. Harry grins like he can’t help it. Merlin looks on the verge of grinding his teeth as he says, “You will spend the next twenty-four hours with your sponsors before the final test. Use the time wisely. Dismissed.”

Roxy and Percival head out, the latter still coughing and pounding his sternum. Merlin throws Harry a last dirty look before striding out of the room. Left alone, Eggsy saunters up to his new lover, slipping his arms around Harry’s neck and feeling Harry’s hands settle on his hips, firm and possessive.

“Twenty-four hours,” Harry says then, with a soft smile. “What would you like to do, Eggsy?”

“Hm.” Eggsy tilts his head up for a kiss which Harry gladly gives, tender and aching with love. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Regarding translations:** All my works, including this one, can be translated without first asking my express permission. I ask only that you credit me as the original author and provide a link back to the original work. For anything other than translations, please ask first. Thanks.


End file.
